


but out alack, he was but one hour mine

by iwritetrash



Series: shakespearean sonnets [3]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Edward Drummond Dies, Grief/Mourning, M/M, References to Shakespeare, excessive discussion of sunshine, not a whole lot else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/pseuds/iwritetrash
Summary: ev'n so my sun one early morn did shinewith all triumphant splendor on my brow;but out alack, he was but one hour mine;the region cloud hath masked him from me now.~sonnet xxxiii, william shakespeare





	but out alack, he was but one hour mine

**Author's Note:**

> you guys this one is straight up depressing im gonna be honest with you. i know i said i was going to write a happy one this time but i was listening to _the night we met_ by lord huron on loop while i wrote this and im emotionally not in a great place rn. 
> 
> also i wrote this instead of revising for my biology a level tomorrow shhhhhh
> 
> but anyway. 
> 
> i hope you like this, if you've decided to read the depressing stuff i've conjured up for you this time round. enjoy?

The sun finds its way through a crack in Alfred’s curtains, landing on his pillow on the opposite side of his bed. The empty side of his bed.

It’s not that Edward ever made a habit of spending nights with Alfred, or that he had frequently lain upon that pillow, but Alfred still thought of it as Edward’s side of the bed. Even though Edward was gone. Even though Edward would never lie there again. 

Their time together had seemed so brief it seems more like a dream, like the fleeting appearance of a sunbeam through winter clouds, lighting a small piece of the earth before it is swallowed again by dark gloom. That was what Edward had been to him. A single sunbeam crawling down from the heavens to warm his body for a small time, only to be drawn back from him all too quickly. Like some celestial body, some empyrean being, he was not long for this world, eternally destined to disappear too quickly.

Alfred reaches a hand out to touch the small beam of light on the pillow, and for a moment he feels that subtle warmth, before the room darkens again, a cloud passing over the sun somewhere outside.

He has not left his room in several days, feigning sickness. Upon receiving the news, he had journeyed immediately to his home, and told his servants he was not to be disturbed. He had drawn his curtains shut, blown out the candles, and collapsed into bed fully clothed, and had remained in such a state ever since.

From time to time, the housekeeper will knock on the door, and leave a small plate of food for him, only to come and collect it, untouched, several hours later. Letters arrive, and are left at the door as well, unopened.

His servants know of his proclivities, and have been carefully chosen to ensure the utmost security, but he is sure they will be gossiping among themselves. Alfred cannot bring himself to care. 

He feels cold, even when swaddled with blankets. It is not so much a physical sensation as an emotional one, as though his very soul has frozen to impenetrable ice now that his sun is gone. What is he to do with nobody left to warm his heart with tender caresses and smiles passed in secret across busy rooms? 

Certainly, Alfred knows he cannot stay in hiding forever without some further excuse. His housekeeper had sent word to the queen that he was suffering from a terrible fever, but that excuse will only buy him so much time with which to grieve. Then he will be expected to return to court, and to his jovial self. It is imperative that nobody is given any grounds for suspicion. Men such as himself cannot afford the luxury of mourning their lovers. 

He supposes in time his heart may mend and melt and be almost as good as it was before, and perhaps he might meet another young gentleman who shares his proclivities, and who might dislodge the sharp blade pricking at his heart’s core, and perhaps he might be able to see that young gentleman sleeping on Edward’s side of the bed, lit by a beam of sun as Edward has been on that first morning, and not feel as though his heart was breaking anew.

For today, however, and perhaps for the immediate future, Alfred can do little more than lie there, staring at Edward’s empty pillow, with no more tears left to cry, filled with a hollowness, and a certain inescapable chill, now that his sunshine is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, as always. i live for your feedback, thank you guys for always commenting or leaving kudos <3
> 
> im also lying in a sunbeam as i post this which seems pretty poetic tbh.
> 
> i promise you, over summer, i will try some happy cute ones like sonnet 116 or sonnet 18.
> 
> i hope this didn't make you too sad. thank you again <3


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